100 FFXII DRABBLES
by Broken-and-fallen
Summary: As the title says. Pairings range from gen to slash to het easily. Rating won't go above PG13, angst, fluff, humour.


FFXII Theme 1: Beginnings 

Some would propose that Larsa never really went through the process of becoming a man. Even when he was young he held an awareness many of his age wouldn't understand. Of course, that was to be expected of someone of his breeding and manner, but sometimes it confused Larsa when doting elderly would call him 'such a pleasing young man' at the age of only eleven.

He was intelligent enough to know that, no, he _wasn't _a young man, he was yet a boy, so what was it about him that convinced people otherwise?

Gabranth was a man; he knew that, because whenever the young Solidor was walking with the Judge, the man seemed to split a path for them without lifting a finger. People revered him, knew of his strength, paid him as much respect as Larsa's own father.

"What is it to be a man?"

"My lord?" Larsa was sitting at his desk reading through some documents his brother had signed, for further confirmation. The fountain beside him was hitting chimes on the way down, and the day was experiencing fair weather, the palace a sombre quiet.

"Why do others treat me as though I am older than I am?"

"You have knowledge and experience surpassing your years, my lord," Gabranth tried to hide it, but Larsa watched with vague amusement as the Judge shifted his weight slightly against the pillar. "Your companions react with due respect."

"I was not aware of it," Larsa said, shuffling his completed pile and setting it to the side, taking another. "Was I always this way?"

"Is there something troubling you my lord?" 

"Humour me," he smiled coyly and tugged his right glove down a little, ringing out his hand before picking up his quill again. "Please."

"You have always held an air of maturity, my lord. If I may say…"

"Of course you may."

"It is not uncommon. Your brother was the same. He is yet young but you can see yourself how much he has achieved."

"I understand, and yet…" some ink dripped off his quill and stained the parchment and Larsa hurriedly tried to stem the bleeding with a kerchief. "Is it odd for me to wish to be treated as a child?"

"Well…for such a status, it isn't, but it is an…interesting wish. Are you certain there is nothing the matter?" 

Larsa sighed and set the document aside, brushing some black off the desk.

"I presume it would be futile to ask you to treat me as a child."

"It would be disrespectful my lord, I would have some trouble following it."

"But I am a child."

"If I may say so my lord," Gabranth rolled his shoulder, and a _pop _emitted from the armour. "Not in spirit."

"In spirit," Larsa repeated softly. "It does always seem to come back to that."

It is almost half a year later, when Gabranth and Drace are sitting with Larsa at the fountain path at his request. Not for idle conversation, but he wanted some time to himself, and that could not be if nannies and watchers and servants constantly hounded him. Neither of the three would consider approaching him when it was quite obvious the Judges were there for the same reason.

Gabranth and Drace are murmuring to each other quietly, but it is a skewed conversation, and Larsa can feel their eyes burning on the back of his head, never wavering. He can hear what they're saying, about the weather, about the troops, training, the other Judges movements and ideas for battles to come. Idle thoughts exchanged in private between the two but loud enough so they know Larsa can hear and feel comfortable.

There is no need for exchanged whispers behind this Solidor's back.

It is comfortable, and familiar, and Larsa inhales deep when a soft wave of wind floats up from the towns below into their sitting place, carrying the scent of warmth and spices and cooking meals from the small pockets of slums that mark the cities maps.

It takes Larsa to register the shift in the air, the sudden lack of sound, and the harsh scraping behind him. Metal claws have appeared on the lip of the building, and as he frowns and gets to his feet Drace has already taken place at his side, sabre drawn and ready.

The attackers scale the rest of the wall, and the woman Judge takes Larsa's wrist (not above, not below, holding one's hand is inappropriate for such as she), pulling him backwards as Gabranth advances.

The men are wearing black fabric around their faces. It is torn from their skin as Gabranth slices through, and Larsa flinches as a slash of wet splatters against his face. His body grows cold as red runs over his lips and he hears Drace hiss at the sight.

_Ah,_ oddly, he thinks, _so, this is what it is to be a man_.

It is precisely that moment, as the alarms sound and he is taken away to be surrounded with towels and medics and concerned family, when he makes an oath to himself.

When, of course, he is of proper age, only then will he strive to be a different kind of man than he.


End file.
